


Kiss Me, Love, By the Light of the Burning Sky

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt:</b> evilSam and Dean</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me, Love, By the Light of the Burning Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [limejuize](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=limejuize).



> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

Sometimes, Dean wishes that he would just go mad already. Other times, he wishes that he could provoke one of the black-eyed bastards who water and feed him into slitting his throat. He wakes up in the morning wishing that he he'd been stronger; goes to bed at night wishing that he’d made a direct swap for Sam with the red-eyed crossroads bitch. Right around sunset, like now, is when he usually wishes that he were rotting in a hole somewhere instead of trapped in this five star gilded cage, otherwise known as the Royal Suite.

He leans one arm against the window and the cold, metal bracelet around his wrist clinks against the glass. There’s a matching bracelet on his other wrist—a cuff, really—and there are protective runes etched into both of them. More esoteric symbols have been inked into his body: the black lines curl down his back and across his hips. It’s the only pain he’s been offered and even then they doped him up first so that he was languid and flying high enough not to feel much of anything.

Sam’s orders.

Dean can rest his entire weight against the window and he doesn’t have to worry about it breaking on him: it’s been warded against that possibility. He discovered that unpleasant fact his first day here, when he spent almost five hours trying to smash his way out with every piece of furniture at his disposal. The window is a constant, taunting reminder of what he’s lost—his freedom—and what it’s been traded away for—a soot-smeared sky and the burnt-out husks of buildings. From the twenty-second floor of the Ritz-Carlton, he can see more than he wants of the three ring circus that the world has become since the day the yellow-eyed demon popped up from the dead with a wide grin and a ‘howdy, boys’ on his lips.

Dean knows what that son of a bitch said because he was there. Because Sam _dragged_ him there, bound and gagged and fighting every inch of the way. He had a front row seat as his brother used their combined blood for the ritual to resurrect the bastard, all the while apologizing. Saying over and over, ‘she can’t have you’ and ‘this is the only way’ and ‘you’re mine’, like any of that could excuse what he was doing.

That last day. The day Sam murdered the world to keep him alive.

Dean hears the door to the suite open and doesn’t bother turning away from the window. He’s watching the sky—watching the red and black swirls where there used to be blue and white. It’s freaky but better than watching what’s going on down below.

“Dean.”

Hands slide into place around his waist, and they fit the same way they did before—they feel the same—but Dean’s skin crawls anyway. He twists away, his throat seizing up on him, and ignores the familiar warning tingle—like a mild electrical charge—that runs into him from the metal cuffs on his wrists.

Sam’s hands are clean; he hasn’t come in here without washing since the time that he touched Dean’s cheek with gore-encrusted hands and sent him into something like a fugue state for over a week. He’s made a bit of a mess, though; Dean can see splatters of blood drying on his shirt. And, of course, there isn’t anything that Sam can do about the yellow shine of his eyes.

“How about a hello?” Sam asks, moving toward him smoothly.

Dean retreats thoughtlessly—instinctively—and ends up with his back against the wall as usual. His heart is sprinting: his chest tight with the fear that this is the night Sam won’t take no for an answer. He knows his brother. Knows that one of these days, Sam’s gonna get tired of waiting for Dean to adjust to the status quo and just take what he wants.

Sam’s eyes flash and the cuffs drag Dean’s arms up over his head, leaving him defenseless and open. Not that, even now, he’s been able to bring himself to try to fight Sam. To hurt him. It’s Dean’s fault that Sam has come to this, after all. Dean’s need for his little brother—his _want_ —has damned them both. It isn’t fair to blame Sam for his own inadequacies.

“How about a kiss?” Sam purrs, moving right up close so that Dean can feel the heat coming off of him.

“Sam, please. Fight this. You’re better than this, man.” It’s pointless: Dean knows it is. But he still can’t seem to keep the desperate, pleading words from falling from his mouth.

Sam just smiles at him, lovingly, and if Dean could just bring himself to ignore the blood and those yellow, cracked eyes, then it would be just like it used to be. Sam lifts one hand and trails his fingers across Dean’s lips before cupping the side of his face. It’s new in the After, but an old, practiced gesture from Before, and Dean finds himself tilting his head into the touch before he realizes what he’s doing. He turns his face away almost immediately, but from the flare of triumph in Sam’s eyes, he noticed.

“That’s it, Dean,” Sam whispers, his thumb restless across Dean’s cheek. “I can make it good for you. Just like old times. All you have to do is give in a little. All you have to do is love me.”

Dean feels tears building in his eyes and hates the evidence of his weakness. “No. You aren’t—this isn’t you. Sammy, _please_ …”

“I miss you,” Sam says, and his voice is suddenly rough with longing. He drops his head down into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and nuzzles against his neck. “You smell so good. I just want—I need—please, Dean. Why the hell do you have to make everything so difficult?”

He shifts to press a gentle kiss to the hollow of Dean’s throat and Dean can’t control the shudder that runs through his body. He doesn’t know anymore if it’s from revulsion or desire.

“Miss being inside you,” Sam breathes. “Fuck, I want you so bad I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Dean can feel his brother’s power pulsing around him, thick like honey. Sam hasn’t lost control like this in a long time; not since the early days, when he was still learning his boundaries. He sounds so lost—so desperate—that, if it weren’t for the fact that his hands are pinned to the wall above him, Dean’s pretty sure that he would be pulling his brother into a hug right now.

Which means he’s closer to falling than he thought. Shit.

“Why don’t you just do it, then?” he asks, and knows it’s like baiting an angry lion. But better that—better Sam hurt him and use him than edge him closer to the precipice. Dean’s seen what’s waiting for him at the bottom—sees it every day outside of his window—and frankly, he’d rather die. Rather have Sam shatter his mind into a million pieces than bend it the way he’s been trying.

Sam lifts his head and there are tear tracks running down from those alien eyes of his. It hurts to look at that—hurts to think that, maybe, there’s still some of the old Sammy left in there under all the power and blood.

“I could,” he admits, running his hands across Dean’s chest. “I could strip you down and take you right here and you couldn’t do a thing to stop me. I could make you want it—make you desperate for it.”

The urge to beg rises sick and hot at the back of Dean’s throat, and the only thing that keeps the pleas from spilling out is the terror clamping his jaw shut.

Sam’s hands, which have been skirting dangerously low, rise again to cup his face. Sam’s smile is tender: his fingers gentle.

“But I don’t want a toy, Dean. I want _you_.” His smile slides sideways into something hungrier, and his hold on Dean’s face tightens. “And you know that I always get what I want.”

“I won’t. Not again. Not now.” Dean manages after a particularly painful swallow, but they both know it’s a lie he can’t make himself believe anymore.

Sam releases him and takes a step back, dragging his eyes up and down Dean’s body like he can see skin through cotton and denim. Hell, for all Dean knows, he can.

“I can wait,” Sam says. “As long as it takes." Then, tilting his head consideringly, he adds, "Just don’t make me wait too long.”

“Why? You already send out the wedding invitations?” Damn it. Months—maybe years: he’s lost track of time—as his brother’s kept pet, and Dean still hasn’t learned to control his tongue.

But Sam only looks amused, which means that Dean’s gotten lucky today. Hasn’t killed anyone else by pissing his brother off and sending him to the basement for a little … release.

“In a way,” Sam says. “I bought you a gift—several, actually—but unlike us, they come with an expiration date. Wait too long, and I’ll be presenting you with nothing but a pile of bones.”

Dean’s gut twists like he’s just been sucker punched. He’s not sure what part of that statement to latch onto first—the part where Sam just basically told him that they’re immortal _(and seriously, what the fuck? Like Dean doesn’t already have enough to deal with)_ , or the part where he’s trying to blackmail Dean into whoring himself out.

Sam takes pity on him for once and redirects Dean's attention for him. “I’ll give you a hint: they’re persistent, annoying, and for some idiotic reason, they thought that they could take you away from me.”

If Dean thought he was blindsided a moment ago, that’s nothing compared with how he feels now. Sam’s talking about Bobby. About Ellen, and Jo, and Deacon. In the early days After, when he managed to get away while Sam’s attention was otherwise occupied with waging a war on mankind, he spent a comparatively blissful two weeks with them. Two weeks of training Jo and letting Ellen try to comfort him. Of planning a counterattack with Bobby and Deacon.

Then Sam turned up on the porch and burned the door to ash with hellfire and Dean was certain that, as angry as Sam was, he'd incinerated everyone inside as well.

Looks like he doesn't know Sam as well as he thought.

“They’re alive?” he breathes, and if Sam’s power wasn’t still pinning his cuffs to the wall he’d be on the floor right now because his knees have given out from the unexpected surge of hope.

“Mmm. I thought you’d appreciate it. They’re here, actually. Waiting a few floors down to celebrate with us.” Sam’s smile has turned lazy as he leans in again. “Safe,” he promises, settling a possessive hand on Dean’s stomach. “Healthy. Sane.”

Dean’s throat works for a moment before he says, “It’s still rape if you threaten me with—”

“It isn’t a threat. I’m not harming them. No one is.” Sam’s thumb curls over the edge of Dean’s jeans and scrapes against his bare skin. “They’re well-fed and protected. They’ll stay that way, no matter what decisions you continue to make. But the sooner you admit that you still want me—still love me—the sooner you’ll see them again.”

Oh God, Dean wants that. Wants to be able to talk to normal people again: people who think that this world—the demon’s world— _Sam’s_ world—is as fucked up as he does. And all he has to do to get that is stop treading water and let the ocean cover him, inside and out.

Sam chuckles and takes his hand back. “Think about it, Dean. Decide whether your outdated morals are worth this isolation. And when you’re ready to stop punishing yourself, let me know.”

The door clicks closed behind Sam at the same instant that Dean’s hands come unglued to the wall, and he immediately presses them to his ears, like he can block out his own thoughts. He sinks down to the floor, shirt rucking up as he slides down the wall, and huddles into himself.

Sam says that he’s willing to wait forever, and Dean believes him. The only problem is that he’s beginning to think that his brother won’t have to.


End file.
